Brighter By Starlight
by Shikijika
Summary: Short glimpses at an interpretation of Blaine's backstory. Canon-compliant through 2x16, 'Original Song'. Warnings for homophobia, bullying and teenage angst. Pretty much a given, though.
1. elation

**i. elation**

_n. a feeling of joy and pride _

Blaine James Anderson was born a disappointment.

Annelise's husband was elated, of course. She watched him, his face glowing with a rare smile as he stared at his newborn son like he was some kind of daydream that might disappear if he dared blink. She seemed to be entirely alone on the matter; James' family had seemed united on the male front (James being the last and only male child for a long time), and her own seemed pleased enough by the news of a little boy.

The nursery would need to be re-painted, she remembered. Perhaps demanding that the sex be a surprise and then turning around and demanding the room be painted Rose Sorbet had been a little hasty. But light pink just wasn't going to cut it, now that Blair had shrunk away and been replaced by Blaine. Blaine's favourite colour probably wasn't pink.

Blaine. _Blaine_. She couldn't really get her head around it. Not yet.

"He's so quiet," James said at last, his voice a soft murmur. "Did you see his eyes? Just like yours."

Annelise smiled wordlessly, wondering if it looked as wooden as it felt. Blair had blue eyes too, a clear summer sky, her long dark hair – beautiful tumbling waves, like her father's – curling in the wind as she danced and shone and was perfect.

Blaine grows up, and his eyes dull to hazel.


	2. shy

**ii. shy**

_n. wary and distrustful; lacking self-confidence_

Blaine is five, and he is a shrinking violet.

It's frustrating; James can't deny that. Little boys – _his_ little boy, especially – should be out playing rough-and-tumble games with the rest of them, or scaring the girls with worms and spiders or whatever it was that children did these days. Blaine seemed happy enough on his own, cross-legged and tracing patterns of words he can't quite read yet with a little crease in his forehead, and the staff had no complaints, but... It just seems odd. James certainly couldn't remember being more interested in reading than tag and four-square at that age.

At least Blaine's intelligent, he reassures himself. He'll get good grades and go to college (and certainly _not_ a liberal arts one) and make something of himself, and that's really what matters.

James kneels down and Blaine starts at his sudden appearance. "Hi, dad," he says, a broad smile curling his lips. Blaine's hair is getting too long again, James notices; strands are beginning to curl into his eyes and he looks a mess. He'll need to get something done about that.

"Hey, little man," he says, happy enough to smile back as he watches his son snap his book shut and stand up. "How was your day?"

The smile fades into a tiny frown as Blaine seems to ponder this question across the expanse of the classroom and out into the corridor. "I'm not _little_," he insists, "but today was good. I got put in the red group for reading."

"Oh? Is that good?"

Blaine nods, his smile suddenly returning. "Yeah! It's the best one, so miss must think I'm smart."

Like he would be anything else, James hears himself think. "Of course you are. Just like your dad, hmm? Are you going to tell mom about it?"

"Uh-huh." There is silence as they head towards the car, and Blaine fidgets in his seat as James starts the engine. The little crease in his forehead has returned. "Is mom okay today?"

James closes his eyes for a moment and breathes out, slowly, wondering just how do you explain to a five-year-old that you don't know if his mother is okay? "She's just tired because of the baby," he says carefully, the words feeling heavy in his mouth. "You know that she loves you, right?"

"I want her to be normal again."

Oh, _Christ_. Blaine's eyes are watery and his lip is quivering as James looks at him through the rear-view mirror and has no idea what the hell he's supposed to say to that. Fuck, being reassuring is hard and – he's _five_, what the hell can he possibly say that would shut him up because he really just doesn't want to deal with this right now? "Hey, Blaine, come on, there's no need for that. Man up, mom's going to be just fine."

He picks the easy option.

Blaine sniffs one last time, but apparently relents. He stares out of the window, his eyes dry for the rest of the drive. _Man up_.


	3. exclusion

**iii. exclusion**

_n. prevent from being included, considered, or accepted _

Soccer had been a fleeting craze in third grade, probably not even lasting a month, but Blaine remembered it with an almost frightening clarity.

He wasn't really very good at it – Charlotte was still too small to play with properly, and dad had sighed and told him that he was really busy, Blaine, could they do it later? – but since nobody seemed to actually know what the rules were anyway, it didn't really matter too much. As long as there was someone standing between the makeshift goalposts (Max tended to get stuck with it, since he was stocky and fairly willing to go along with whatever the 'cooler' boys suggested), Blaine could feel kind of included for once. He could dodge around the taller boys and flick the ball out of their way, so even if he wasn't always very interesting he was at least never picked last.

But everyone stopped sharp and stared as he kicked it with an unfortunate curve, the ball soaring gracefully and landing with a skittering roll onto the school roof. There was a collective eye-rolling and a loud 'aw, shit' which Blaine flinched at because he wasn't meant to say words like that, so why would anyone else?

"What did you do that for?" huffed one of the boys, Ruben, glowering at Blaine and suddenly rounding on him, a vague circle of the others beginning to form. "You're going to have to go and get it, you know."

Blaine wasn't very sure on that. "But it's on the roof," he reminded him, shrugging. Wasn't _his_ problem.

"We can get onto the roof, stupid," said another boy. "Besides, you're the smallest so you're the easiest to boost up."

Blaine huffed and demanded that they _prove_ he was the smallest one there, because he absolutely was not. Then somebody pulled out a ruler.

And that was how he found himself lifted up onto the giant bin – the one that supposedly the sixth graders threw the first graders in on the first day of school, and the one where that had never, ever happened – and steadied himself, the lid buckling slightly under his weight. One of the boys who had given him a boost, Adrian (who Blaine was kind of afraid of at the best of times), sighed heavily and rolled his eyes at him when Blaine turned nervously to face everyone.

"Come on, Blaine, it's not even scary. What are you, a..." Adrian paused for thought, an insult not immediately coming to mind, "... a _homo_?"

Blaine didn't know what a homo was, but judging from Adrian's slightly pleased expression, it probably wasn't a good thing and he certainly didn't want to be one. He wondered if Adrian knew what a homo was, either.

Maybe. Considering this in an attempt to not think about the fact that he was scrambling onto the school roof, Blaine focused and tuned out the 'holy crap, he's actually doing it' and 'hey, who's keeping watch again' –

"Blaine Anderson! In God's name, what are you doing up there?"

Sitting in the principal's office, Blaine realised that 'Adrian called me a homo' was not a very good reason as to why exactly he had decided to wander across the school roof. This was immediately apparent by the principal rolling her eyes at him and his dad sighing and massaging the sides of his head and telling him that really, he shouldn't be telling tales at his age.

There was no point in arguing.


	4. whisper

**iv.** **whisper**

_n. speaking softly; a light rustling noise_

It wasn't that bad. It was okay. It was fine. Everyone got teased in high school. It was a fact, right? Everyone who mattered, everyone he looked up to, had interviews in glossy magazines with blown-up faces and spoke about being different isolated quiet shy uncool a loser a freak ignored. The words were glossed and trite, pretty-sounding lies.

But he, got good grades; he was clever. Being called names by petty people couldn't get to him. Wouldn't get to him. It was okay, it was fine, it wasn't that bad.

Liking his hair the way it is, and liking to sing and liking the garish lights and ancient smell of the old mahogany stage and being more interested in keeping his uniform clean than didn't make him _gay _(not in the way _they_ meant it, anyway). The rumours about him and Mr. Marshall the music teacher really weren't helping his case, though, but he couldn't make them _stop_. Couldn't do anything about it except set his jaw and bite his lip until it scored red and angry and pretend not to hear, which never worked because then they pulled out _prissy_ and _stuck-up_ and _coward_.

Be yourself, and you'll get through it all right. Be strong. Refuse to be the victim. Have courage. He whispered it to himself over and over like a psalm, offered it to anyone who might be listening, but it never did any good. Blaine Anderson wasn't _strong_ like everyone else. Wasn't strong like his father or his mother, or like anyone else he had ever met.

Maybe he was wrong and they were right.

He already knew they were right about one thing. Maybe they were right about the rest, too. But how could it be – how could it be so terrible, or terrible at all? It was just the way it was. He wanted hold hands with a boy and maybe give him flowers or sing to him even if he thought it was silly, being sung to, but he would do it anyway because it made the people in the movies happy, and maybe receive things like that in return. The idea made his heart warm and his cheeks dimple and... it was so, so stupid that things that made him happy made everyone think he was anything but normal.

He didn't want to think about it, so he covered his ears and hummed and waited for it to be over.


	5. trust

**v. trust**

_v. have confidence or faith in_

Sometimes Annelise felt that she didn't spend enough time with Blaine. She knew – and had been told repeatedly – that she couldn't blame herself for post-partum depression or her difficult pregnancy with Charlotte. It had taken her a little longer than most, perhaps, but she loved him, almost painfully so.

But she didn't have very much in common with him. Blaine was quiet and gentle, happiest reading or practising piano (which she could tell frustrated her husband, even though he had been the one to insist that Blaine had some kind of extra-curricular. Blaine had just happened to pick the wrong one); and she spent most of her days intimidating people on the phone, or in court, or through email, and didn't have the patience for instruments and despised reading after having to drag herself through it all day every day.

Annelise saw herself in her daughter. Charlotte was demanding where Blaine complied with just about everything anyone said; Charlotte bounced joyfully around the house while Blaine slipped shadow-like around corners; Charlotte was saccharine brights where Blaine was soft pastel. Watching her six-year-old daughter sweep in and out of rooms, giggling high-pitched, a pretty chime, Annelise _knew_ that Blaine needed her more.

Blaine didn't bring friends home. When he got home from school, he would disappear up the winding staircase or into the study and remain unseen until dinner if it was possible. That day it was the study, Blaine's forehead creased in concentration as he wriggled himself into a proper position on the stool. Annelise stood at the door,

"Did you have a good day at school?" she asked, because she couldn't think of anything else.

Blaine turned to look at her, stiffly, and shrugged. "It was okay," he said, his hands moving to fidget with themselves again. "I got a solo in choir."

And that was wonderful, she smiled, and not only so because James wouldn't approve of Blaine's interest in singing (not that many people did); Blaine was talented, but her words always felt empty and cold. It was a force of habit, perhaps.

"... Can I practise now?"

Excusing herself, she retreated upstairs and pinched the bridge of her nose and wondered why everything she couldn't learn from a book was so _hard_. She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes ineffectually, listening as the gentle music began again, stuttering occasionally, rolling back and repeating. Patient.

"Leave him alone, Elise," James said later, looking up at her from above his reading glasses. "All boys are awkward at his age. Granted, Blaine's a little... stranger –"

Her tone suddenly changed, clenching her teeth before speaking. "There's nothing strange about him. He's _sad_, and he needs someone to talk to."

James rolled his eyes at her and folded his newspaper, setting it on the coffee table and standing up. She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling the tenseness in her muscles as she stood fiercely silent. "And he won't talk to you, will he? Fine, fine, I'll sort him out."

It had ended in the house shaking on its foundations with slamming doors and Charlotte's suddenly-muted voice (_I've never heard daddy or Blaine shout like that before_) and Blaine, dark and scowling, pressed into the corner of the sofa with furious wet eyes and his knees drawn up to his chest.

"Mom?" he whispered, staring up at her, and she broke. "H-hey, mom, don't cry, it's... it's not your fault, mom, it's not..."

His voice was still choked.

"Blaine, darling," she nuzzled the side of his neck and pressed him close into her embrace, feeling a heated dampness slip across her skin. "Don't let anyone tell you that you're wrong for being you. Not even your father. He doesn't mean what he's saying."

"H-how do you know?"

"Trust me," she said, knowing that would never be enough.


	6. hide

Thank you to everyone who's reviewed/favourited/put this fic on alert! I really appreciate it.

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><p><strong>vi. hide<strong>

_v. prevent from being seen or discovered _

James Anderson thought about it, his eyes watching the road but processing them only off-handedly. His relationship with Blaine wasn't – it wasn't _terrible_, but he knew it was hardly ideal. Okay, he had shouted at him for plenty of things in the past. He wasn't perfect, but perfect parents didn't exist and he sure as all hell wouldn't even think about smacking Blaine around for anything.

But usually, he stepped around Blaine and his issues and tried not to acknowledge them. He didn't want to interfere unless he had to – boys had to grow up someday, and fighting all of his son's battles wasn't going to help him at all in the grand scheme of things. But watching Blaine sulk in the back seat through the rear-view mirror, arms folded tightly to his chest and forehead pressed against the window like he was trying to push himself through it, James resigned himself to the fact that he really needed to talk to him.

"You can't just go shouting things like that at people because you're angry, Blaine."

Blaine snorted, leaving a puffed smear on the glass. "Why? He asked. Preston's always asking shi– stuff like that," he corrected himself before James could even raise an eyebrow, "so if he wants to know so much why can't I say it?"

"Because calling yourself things like that won't do you any favours, son," James said, his tone struggling to keep even. "And neither will getting into a scrap in the hallway about it, for that matter –"

"– He started it –"

"– I don't care who started it. It doesn't _matter_. Blaine, you have to understand that... that not everyone is going to like you," he sighed, watching Blaine pretend to take it in. "Not everyone is going to understand why you are what you are, but shouting about being a... you know what in their face and provoking them into a fight is only going to cost you in the long run."

Blaine's lip quivered a moment too long before he caught it in his teeth. "Fag."

"_Blaine_." James felt himself cringe and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles shone white through his skin. "Don't you dare say that again. You've gotten into enough crap for one day."

"Why? I can't say it, but everyone else can?"

"That's not what I mean and you know it," James snapped, forcing himself not to turn around, concentrating on even breathing and not doing what he would rightly regret later. (He would have been just the same, he reminded himself; at twelve, all boys were.) "Just... turn the other cheek, all right? Work hard, get into a good college, and then you can look back and realise that it doesn't matter what those kids thought about you. You're a smart kid; don't waste it by getting yourself in trouble, got it?"

Blaine looked at him with some undefinable expression, his eyes unwavering, but didn't say anything. The rest of the drive crawled along under a heavy silence.

"You hate me," Blaine said suddenly as they pulled into the driveway, having retreated back into his folded-arm shell again.

James clicked his tongue (a nervous habit he had picked up from his college roommate), not entirely sure how to respond. Responding with something that didn't sound contrived was surprisingly difficult. "I don't hate you, Blaine. Don't be ridiculous."

Snort. "Thanks, dad."

Blaine made like a shot upstairs as soon as the front door opened, his bedroom door slamming on its hinges hardly a moment later. James pressed his fingers into his temples and wondered why nothing ever went right for him any more.


	7. confusion

**vii. confusion**

_n. an emotion resulting from a failure to behave predictably _

Blaine was quite sure that it had been a life-changingly awkward moment for Mrs Cochrane, too.

Leaving English half an hour early had been enough of a pain, since it only evoked a wave of whispers and giggling that kind of made him want to slide under his desk into a wormhole (preferably one leading to somewhere pleasant; he certainly didn't want to end up in some dystopian future where he would certainly go mad). He liked English, anyway; the books they read created a comforting void, where words meant things more than superficially and where if a person was alone and sad it was just a matter of pages and chapter until they realised that they were better people because of it – because it had made them strong, because they could look after themselves. But Blaine tried not to put too much stock into that idea.

Instead he stared at his feet, looked up at the ceiling, left and right around the empty hallway outside the vice-principal's office, wondered if he should keep reading _Jane Eyre_ while he was sitting here doing nothing anyway. Actually doing the assigned reading probably made him even more of a target than usual but it was hardly like that even mattered any more – Blaine sincerely doubted that it could get any worse than nearly getting throttled in the hallway outside US History after snapping that yeah, you know what, sure, I'm a fucking fag, what about it?

He was such an _idiot_. Now his teachers were convinced he was some sort of deceptive delinquent, eyes crinkled and unsure in his direction; his parents not much better, mom a little more sympathetic but still as distant and more sad-eyed (disappointment, he was sure) than his heavy-sighing father, only interested when he got into fights; and Charlotte was sweet but seemingly lived in a world completely separate from Blaine's most of the time, only intersecting at home. He was just a pain in the ass.

Which was probably why he had to talk to Mrs Cochrane about how he didn't think girls were very physically appealing. It didn't feel like it was that much of a problem, but apparently everyone else had to take issue with it and getting into one little fight (which his mother had, in fact, not been scared about, just _disappointed_) was grounds for being treated like he had been the one who had tried to crush an innocent's vocal chords.

Well, maybe it wasn't quite that dramatic – Preston was taller than him, but he was one of those awkward-looking guys who looked like they had been stretched with a machine. But he was still a jerk.

While the whole thing had stopped people shoving him on the way to class (or going into class, or when they walked past his desk to the pencil-sharpener, or...), it had just sprung up the idea that he was some kind of teetering psychopath ready to jump on them at any moment. Blaine felt that the shoving had probably been better than the mocking fear everyone acted out whenever he was within ten feet of them.

"I'm okay," he replied regardless, not willing to fork his emotions over, even if Mrs Cochrane wasn't the worst person he could have had to sit and talk to instead of being in class. She was probably kind of young for a vice-principal, maybe just thirty, a curly-haired blonde with neat, pointed features. Looking at her carefully as he sat down in another chair – this time in her actual office, instead of having to hang around outside like some sort of delinquent – Blaine supposed she was pretty, and wondered exactly what it was he was supposed to feel instead.

"Oh?" she said, starting Blaine from his thoughts. She smoothed the minuscule wrinkles out of her shirt before continuing. "So, I heard you've been in a bit of trouble recently?"

Blaine felt himself scowl, even though he didn't mean to. "That wasn't my fault," he said, hearing his voice sharp in the air as his muscles tensed and his fingers picked and dug at the worn chair cover. Seriously? Could they talk about _anything_ else?

"I know, Blaine," and Blaine could hear the honeyed sympathy in her voice, "I'm not trying to accuse you of doing anything wrong. I'd just like to talk to you for a bit about some things, maybe there's something that's worrying you?"

There was an awkward pause that hung in the air for far too long before Blaine tore his gaze away from the hugely interesting left-hand wall (a painting of a robin in a winter scene, how utterly unseasonal). Instead he stared back at the floor. He wondered if maybe it was a comfort thing. "Not really," he mumbled eventually. "Normal stuff, I guess. But I don't really want to talk about anything."

Mrs Cochrane exhaled sharply and if her composure wasn't so together Blaine could have sworn she had almost laughed. "Are you sure?" she pressed, her tone curiously even. "You don't want to talk about that problem you had with Preston Bradley a couple weeks ago?"

Blaine figured that he would probably rather stick pins in his eyes. "Not really," he rephrased, in an effort to be polite.

"You're still young, you know," she continued like he hadn't said anything, leaning her folded arms across the desk and smiling at Blaine like it was going to fix the fact that he sort of wanted to – to – well, he didn't really know what he wanted to do, but it definitely involved his heartbeat continuing to drum impatient over his ribcage and – probably something that wasn't just sitting and taking it. "Sometimes boys get crushes on boys, or girls will get crushes on other girls... it does happen, but who's to say you'll think the same way in a year? Or when you're graduating high school?"

Blaine stared at her, his utterly bemused expression causing Mrs Cochrane to cock her head in likeness. "I don't _have_ a crush on anyone," he said, stupidly, deciding he might as well address the least wrong part of that little speech first.

"It was an example, Blaine," and now her smile seemed a little strained. Blaine had to dig his fingernails into his palm to stop reflexively rolling his eyes. "I don't mean to stress you out, or anything. I'd just like to know if maybe there was another reason behind your outburst...?"

"I don't think I'm pretending to be gay so I can get picked on all the fu– _time_, no," he snapped, only just catching himself. Mrs Cochrane's eyes widened slightly in surprise and he felt a sort of strange thrill rush through his veins as he spoke, _gay_ somehow rolling prettily off his tongue. "I think Preston and everyone else are the ones with the problem, not me." He opened his mouth again to maybe finish with 'probably because they're assholes', but rethought and closed it again.

Even with Blaine's thoughtful retraction, the rest of the conversation didn't go over too well and it ended with a sort of exasperated 'it would be ridiculous to pull up all of those boys when all we have his your word, Blaine' and other such things that led to the conclusion that yes, he was just sort of a pain. Oh, you're gay? Well, you'll just have to deal with the consequences, even though it's not your fault (they were lying through their teeth, even he could see that). Whatever. Who cares?

He couldn't help but feel kind of... kind of pissed off. He was stuck playing the rogue vigilante role in a mundane universe, him against the world and it was so _angsty_ and stupid but it was true. Perhaps the difference between fiction and reality lay in his alignment (no, definitely; he wasn't wrong, he couldn't be). It certainly didn't lie in the form of a friend, at any rate.


	8. solitary

This one was painful to write, which was why it took so long. Not my favourite, but I've edited it into something I'm good with.

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><p><strong>viii. solitary<strong>

_n. isolated from others; characterised by preferring or possessing solitude_

Blaine always felt like a stalked deer under his father's gaze, making him want to cringe and run away like any sensible person but unfortunately frozen to the spot. While neither abusive nor cruel, his posture and tone all hissed authority and it was probably what scared Blaine the most, confrontations like this. Not with anyone else; he tried not to put huge stock into what anyone else said, but his dad was different and he didn't know why. He cared, and it made his stomach clench like iron and he couldn't stand it. What a coward.

"Why didn't you say anything?" his father said at last, the stupid _stupid_ letter crinkling under the grasp of his fingers (_your son has been having some issues_ –), the black ink of the school logo twisting beneath the fold.

"I don't know, maybe you could have _guessed_?" Blaine snapped back, already feeling his back tighten and his shoulders rise defensively. His eyes didn't waver. "What did you think, that I just get into fights because _that's what boys do_, right? No way there could have been some sort of reason for it, because that would make too much sense."

For a moment his father's mask slipped and he looked almost distressed, the lines in his forehead suddenly more pronounced, but it flashed away as quickly as it had appeared and Blaine would later think that perhaps he had just imagined it. "Don't speak to me like that," he said, quietly, and Blaine felt himself slide back on the sofa and draw quiet. "I'm supposed to be able to see into your head now? Just magically know that all those kids ignore you or call you –" he stopped and bit his lip. "What was I supposed to do if you wouldn't even tell me about it?"

Blaine realises later that it was maybe not such a stupid question, but he has always been bad at not acting on impulse. "I don't _know_. What would you have done if I had? Tell me that you'd do something about it? Tell me that you loved me or that it was okay? Because I really can't see that happening."

He heard his voice falter, the pitch cracking on the last syllable, and he stopped and thought hard about all the curse words he wasn't going to say. His father's eyebrows rose and Blaine flinched back but there was a flutter of pride inside, a flickering candle that smiled and burned bright at the surprise and pain that crossed his father's expression. But playing with fire will get you burned, and it sputters out with a hard wash of guilt when Blaine sees his father's lips tighten and his fingers dig into his palms.

"I think," his father paused and breathed in like it was almost painful, "that you should really consider transferring to a different school."

"Why, so I can get universally ignored there too?"

"Blaine, you don't know that. Your mother and I think that you should maybe consider it, because you're clearly not excelling where you are now," he stopped, momentarily, glancing up at the ceiling like what he should say would be painted there. "Don't act like this isn't hard for me – you know how it feels to know that you've failed at looking after your own damn kid?"

"I don't _need_ looking after. I'm fine."

"You're not. Any idiot can see that, Blaine, don't pretend to be brave when it's not going to do you any good."

(So said the man who had told him from birth to _man up_ and _what's there to cry about?_ and _you've got to stay strong and be there for your sister_. So said the blind man.)

"Your... your mom found this place in Westerville, Dalton Academy. It's an all-boys' school –" Blaine watched his father roll his eyes, "– but it has a zero-tolerance policy on bullying, so. Maybe look into that."

Blaine wondered if he was supposed to be relieved. "So you just want me to just... run away? Tell them that they've gotten to me and that they win? No. I don't want to. I can't."

And it sounded childish but it was _true_ and Blaine could tell his father wasn't taking it in at all. Frustrating. He knew best, he knew he'd do the right thing and – but – what was the right thing? A sinking sense of are you sure? had slipped into his head, made its home there, heavy and foreboding. He felt sort of sick wet and churning and he wondered if he could throw up on the patent leather sofa and forget about this stupid idea but then again, maybe that would be his surrender in the first place.

"I'm not saying you have to. But I think you should really go and take some time to yourself, get your head around it. I don't... staying where you are isn't going to help you."

"... I'll ask mom to show me when she gets home."

Blaine stared at the floor, his arm curled protectively over his stomach all of a sudden, and his father nodded with a strange glitter in his eyes and dismissed him.

He pressed his face against the cool ceramic toilet bowl and knew he had to do the right thing.


	9. fake

Angst is still par for the course. I had fun trying to remember what it was like to be an eleven-year-old again, though.

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><p><strong>ix. fake<strong>

_n. that which is not genuine; a forgery or sham _

It was so obviously _not_ about Blaine's hair that it was a little sad.

Mom had almost burst into tears on the spot when Blaine walked into the kitchen, his curls gone and replaced by a short, wavy cut that rendered him momentarily unrecognisable; Dad had looked up from his laptop, squinted through his glasses, and muttered something about how maybe someone would finally stop moulting all over the Chevy's engine; and Charlotte had just burst out laughing.

"You look so _weird_," she'd giggled, trying to smother them with her hand, but it was true! Her older brother had been recognisable purely through his mess of black curls – and besides, when she drew exaggerated family portraits, what was she going to have to draw him with now? Blaine raised his eyebrows at her (ah!), but his attention was quickly drawn to the bubbling tension between their parents at the other end of the kitchen table.

"I happen to think that Blaine's hair looked just fine as it was, and maybe he should have said something beforehand –" "– Annelise, he's fifteen; he can do what he likes, and regardless you can hardly say that he doesn't look better now that you can actually see his face –" "– He's only gone and done that since you've been nagging at him about it for so long, _James –_"

If it had been dinnertime and not two in the afternoon on a Saturday, it probably would have been a terrific cliché. Charlotte had rolled her eyes and wished that she ate faster so she could leave (due to ridiculous rules that prevented her from taking food out of the kitchen), or maybe just smash her face on the table and distract them by breaking her own nose. Or _something; _just about anything to stop the two of them from picking fights with each other using Blaine or her or the mailman or whatever as an excuse.

It had been happening a lot more often recently, when Dad had suddenly up and decided that male bonding time was the only thing he had time for any more and had brought home some junkheap masquerading as a car; and Mom insisted that there was some kind of ulterior motive to the sudden change in Dad's attitude that Charlotte didn't quite understand. Nobody ever told her anything, that was the problem.

But here she was, walking beside a silently fuming Blaine with his face flushed pink, able to ask just about anything she wanted but not knowing what to say. She'd been a little frightened by Blaine's sudden outburst that sounded somewhat like he had taken it from a self-help book, like he was trying to convince himself that this wasn't his fault at the same time. Blaine was usually the sensible one who never said things out of line or forgot to call or ran out of the house after telling their parents that they were infuriating (_such_ a Blaine word to use) and why the hell don't you just get a divorce if you're using every little thing as an excuse to argue?

She'd dashed out after him before he slammed the front door, and only partly because the letterbox would fall off again if she didn't catch it.

"Are you okay?" Charlotte asked eventually, nudging Blaine with her elbow until he started and reappeared with his mind in the right universe again. "... And where are we going?"

"Where am _I_ going, you mean?" Blaine said wryly, the tiniest of smiles appearing on his face. "You decided to follow me. But I'm going to the park."

"Why?" Charlotte linked her hands behind her back and stepped carefully over the cracks in the sidewalk,

"It's a nice day."

She couldn't really argue with that, despite everything; the sun was high and warm in a cloudless sky, and Charlotte had kind of been anxious to go out anyway since it was so nice. Her phone vibrated in her pocket (Harper: _why are you not online? important things to tell you!_) and as she tapped out a reply (_sorry, making sure blaine is okay. he kind of had a fit at mom and dad. back in like an hour._) and wondered just what was so important, Blaine turned the corner and the park loomed into view, bright primary-colour jungle gym and slides and swingset all achingly familiar.

"I'll push you on the swings if you want," Blaine said, noticing Charlotte's slightly wistful look. But his smile was strained, fake almost, and he sat down on the grass a little while up from the park fencing, evidently not about to take up on that offer.

Charlotte made a face at him and flopped down onto the grass too, stretching her legs out and smiling at the warmth on her bare skin. "I'm not five," she reminded him. "And why did you just blow up like that? They're always arguing, it's not really that big a deal..."

"I've just – I don't know," Blaine stuttered, drawing his knees up to his chest and propping his chin on them. "... Did I really say all of that?"

Charlotte nodded, and Blaine's face fell like he didn't know that already. "Dad is seriously gonna kill you when we get back," she said, flicking her cell open again (_aww. well, hurry up. your brother is not more important than me!_) and closing it with a small snort. "He looked like he was two seconds away from strangling you."

"Because it's true? They _are_ infuriating," muttered Blaine into his knees. "You know when we're in the garage fixing up the Chevy? Half of it is Dad complaining about how Mom is too soft on me – on us, but really he means me since you're not a horrible disappointment to him, you know? And Mom just acts like I'm a lost cause, or something. I don't know. It really... it really pisses me off that they'll sit and pick on each other in front of us like that. In front of you."

Charlotte wasn't really sure about that, and she shrugged her shoulders awkwardly. "I dunno, it doesn't really bother me that much. Dad gets on at me a lot about my grades, though," she said, staring out at the small clusters of children and parents out in the summer sun and wondering if she could ever remember doing that. Maybe. Her memory was pretty spotty. "I don't see what's so wrong about getting a C every once in a while, honestly..."

"Nothing wrong with it, you're just lazy and shouldn't be getting Cs in the first place."

Charlotte huffed at him. "I am not! Spanish is hard, you know."

Blaine chuckled at that, finally, sitting up slightly and shuffling over until their shoulders were touching. They both glanced up or down at each other for a long moment, a thoughtful silence settling over them. But it started getting a little weird, so Charlotte broke eye contact and focused on the soft drag of the grass under her feet and between her toes, unsure of what she was supposed to say next. Surely she was meant to say something supportive? It being them against their parents, after all, and Blaine still had that strange look on his face that he usually had after him and Dad disappeared into the study for one of their million hour-long discussions about whatever it was boys talked about.

"Are you scared?" she blurted out, almost surprising herself as much as she did Blaine, who raised his newly-recovered eyebrows at her.

"Scared about what?"

"Changing schools, going to that Dalton place," she said, teasing a daisy stem between her fingers as she spoke. "I'd be scared, having to leave everyone behind and go somewhere totally different. Especially since you're going in sophomore year."

Blaine snorted under his breath and shook his head. "Trust me, I'm not going to miss anyone at that school. I don't think they'll miss me either. Probably just move onto some other easy target."

And suddenly he looked so utterly depressed that Charlotte didn't entirely believe him (although really, those were perfectly good reasons; there was just something odd in the way he sighed and crushed grass in his fingers). "... Do you want a hug?" she asked, then thought better of it. "But only this once, since I'm not meant to like you."

"Hm, okay, you can treat me," Blaine replied, a proper grin on his face as he turned to face Charlotte and pushed her into a hug instead, trapping her and ruffling her hair until she hit him and told him to stop being so annoying and no, it was not his job, dammit. She shoved him away and pretended to sulk about it, but she was a little glad that Blaine was smiling again.

They stayed until the sunlight began to wither behind the thicket of trees over the horizon, the sky beginning to glow in a warm sunset. They walked home in an amiable silence, perhaps a little closer.


	10. courage

Thank you for all the favourites, alerts and reviews I've gotten on this. I really appreciate it! Just one more section to go, it and its incredibly obvious title.

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><p><strong>x. courage<strong>

_n. a quality of spirit that enables you to face danger or pain without showing fear _

Stiff and anxious in his pristine new uniform, he still managed a polite smile in the face of thirty strangers. "Hi, I'm Blaine Anderson," he says, his back straight and demeanour as effortlessly private-school as he has been taught; he relaxes, a little, when nobody seems to give him more than a curious glance before he's gestured to sit and they turn back to their conversations of whatever happened over the summer.

His muscles are frozen in a tense knot all morning, making notes but barely processing them. There's a distinct feeling worrying deep into his chest that maybe it'll be just like last time, except perhaps he will ignored for real instead of the kind where he can feel people whispering about him when they think he can't hear, and that would probably be worse.

But sitting in French the boy next to him leans over and hisses "you're the new kid, right?" and Blaine nods, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. "Oh good," grins the other boy, surprisingly. "I'm Thad, and I hope you're good at French because I don't have a damn clue what she's talking about."

He smiles and says something about how he's sure they can muddle their way through this semester if they try hard enough; and inside, he's smiling and thinking that really, everything might just be okay.

x x x

"Why don't you audition for the Warblers?"

The question takes him and his rendition of 'Empire State of Mind' by surprise, even though he's been looming wistfully around the Warbler practice room for the past two weeks. It just so happens that Blaine isn't used to being propositioned for such things (or for any things, actually) in the middle of the bathroom. Jeff looks at him and shrugs, leaning back on the next sink. Blaine has found that Jeff is one of those people who are endlessly curious and who end up prodding into everything and anything that remotely concerns them, not that he particularly minds.

"You don't have to, or anything – just think it'd be better if you stopped singing in the bathroom and got an actual audience, you know?" Jeff continues as though he wasn't waiting on an answer. "You're pretty damn good, you know."

So Blaine does audition, his voice strong but a little understated, trying to keep his feet from straying too far over the line between 'this fits the song' and 'jumping on furniture just helps you feel taller'. The applause he gains after the last note may or may not have been pure niceties, but Blaine thinks he could get drunk on the sound (because he really is that good).

(He is _excellent_.)

For some reason, he doesn't feel at all surprised when he finds his name on the official Warbler members' list for that year; he just grins and continues making his way to Algebra. Expectancy is a wonderful thing.

x x x

"Sophomore Member Anderson will be taking lead vocals on this number."

And it's just a rehearsal piece – some catchy Top 40 hit they will struggle to remember the name of in a years' time – but sophomores just don't get solos for the sake of fairness when it is unity and perfection the Warblers strive for, so it's an achievement regardless. So Blaine grins and thanks the Council and makes a rudimentary attempt to be bashful (because he should, even though he knows he's good enough – they wouldn't have invited him to audition if he wasn't), and sings his heart out because it makes him feel appreciated in a strange sense he doesn't think about too hard.

His mother tells him that he's been smiling more often recently. Blaine shrugs and says that comes with not being constantly mocked and belittled by his peer group, and he notices that she flinches slightly as he says it. It doesn't warrant a mention.

His father tells him not to get too big for his boots. Blaine doesn't reply to that; he's not sure how to.

x x x

Blaine didn't get a solo for Sectionals in his sophomore year – of course not, he had barely even been part of the group yet – but he could wait. Performing in a group gave as much of a rush as doing the same solo would have, safely backed up in the unity of navy blazers with red piping

"And first place goes to..." Blaine sweated under the harsh stage lights and felt his heart patter fitfully against his ribcage; suspense be damned. "... the Dalton Academy Warblers!"

And he cheered and was almost immediately squashed by the others, barely having the time to flinch before being swallowed into the middle of a group (crush) hug as Wes somehow managed to grasp the trophy. Waves of applause and the bright spark deep in his chest at performing and _winning_ burned bright, like he was overheating, and for a wonderful moment he didn't really care that his parents had pretended to be too busy to be in the audience.

(They lose at Regionals, place second, but they tell themselves that they'll do better next year.)


	11. Kurt

Okay, I edited this faster than I expected. Yay! Obviously I have to write a sequel, but this is the end of Blaine: The Wangst Years. Thank you for sticking this far with it!

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><p><strong>xi. Kurt<strong>

_n. diminutive form of german 'curtis', meaning 'courteous' _

It was very strange.

Blaine has fallen into a routine, now, his confidence spiralling joyously upwards with each passing day he wakes up and doesn't feel trapped. Instead he gels down his hair, hums the next Warbler number under his breath during classes, and is free to command a room in song, not smiling but _beaming_, where sometimes his cheeks hurt, a plethora of a once-rare jewel. And it sounds trite and almost too easy (and he knows, somewhere, that it is) but Blaine is just glad that he is no longer alone and lost.

But suddenly there's an _excuse me_ and he turns, and there is a boy and Blaine thinks _oh, hello_, but thinks that might be a little strange to say, perhaps, in that voice. So instead he holds out his hand and gives his name (instead of answering the question, idiot) and is curiously pleased by the pretty face that suddenly appears as he discovers that his name is Kurt. _Kurt_.

What a nice name, he decides, smiling back. A nice name for a boy with bright eyes and a sweet smile, who may possibly be the worst spy he has ever seen. Blaine wonders if he sings better than he speaks, because if he does he wonders why Kurt would need to bother spying at all.

And Blaine has always been one to act on impulse, so he grasps Kurt's hand because it is soft and warm and he wants to show him something, anything, because the look on his face when he asks _so the Glee Club here is kind of cool? _is intriguing and somehow sad. Blaine feels something warm begin to spread in his chest as he smiles and oozes easy confidence and runs through beautiful and dramatic hallways with a boy who doesn't mind, maybe more than that; he likes the feeling, but it makes him nervous, and he makes a conscious effort to squash it. There is no good to be found in getting attached, he tells himself firmly. It's never helped before, and it won't even now (because he doesn't feel safe enough to confide in others, not yet).

It really is like Wonderland, Blaine thinks as the opening lyrics of 'Teenage Dream' slip over his tongue; Kurt the curious Alice, and he – well. He doesn't know where he fits into Kurt's story, if he does at all, but he thinks he might like to find out.

But it's only after Kurt calls him, his voice shaking – Wes and David roll their eyes fondly at him and mutter 'white-knight Anderson' and 'oh, look, here comes pocket-sized Superman' between them as he explains – and he finds himself driving to Lima to help some guy he has met precisely once, who he met solely because that guy was scoping out the competition for Sectionals, that he wonders what the hell he's doing.

Blaine cares too much; he cares too much because nobody cared _enough_ and now he is stuck wanting to play the hero for everyone. For Kurt, for this Karofsky kid, because he knows what that must feel like, even though he tries not to let it show too much because it feels a little like losing again. He isn't afraid any more, he announces to the world, to anyone who will listen.

But he doesn't think Kurt is just anyone, and that's what scares him the most.

And yet he finds himself smiling, hands curled over coffee with this boy whom he quickly discovers is witty and bright and strong (stronger than Blaine will ever be). He can't help himself; he has the strangest feeling that the most curious story has picked him up at just the right time.


End file.
